Birds of a feather stick together, they say.
It was a chilly day. Windy.
I was wearing my yellow coat. My favorite.
He was wearing no coat, but when I asked he said he wasn’t cold, thank you.
When he rose his left hand, I suddenly felt trapped and instinctively stepped back.
I don’t like people touching me, but I was both craving for him to kiss me and terrified he could actually do it.
He touched my hair instead.
A feather. Light. White.
Like his smile, that day I’ll never forget.